A Perfect Heritage (64 page)

‘I shall miss you, we all will. But we do wish you so very well, and we hope you will come and see us from time to time – I believe you still have connections here?’ Even more laughter. She took a rather smart-looking carrier bag from Jemima. ‘Bertie, I would like you to accept this small token of our esteem and affection, and you are to place it upon your desk when you arrive at your new job on the very first day. Lest you forget us. And as you will see, it’s portable; it can move with you from office to office, firm to firm.’

And as he took it she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Bertie, scarlet-faced and clearly extremely emotional, took the bag and produced from it a box, and from that a very fine silver carriage clock, with
Bertram Farrell works here
engraved on its base.

It was the perfect present, Lara thought, blinking away some rather determined tears – God, the one thing she had sworn not to do, cry – generous, classy, and yet given considerable humour by the text.

Bertie was now trying to speak. He had the notes of what they had written in his hand. He looked down at them. He looked up and round the room. He looked at his notes again. He cleared his throat. There was a rather painful silence. Then he said, ‘Thank you, thank you so much, Bianca, for those very kind words. Too kind, I fear.’ Shouts of ‘no, no,’ and ‘nonsense’ rang from all round the room. ‘And thank you, all of you for the present. It’s – well it’s lovely. And all of you for coming. That’s lovely too. I’ve so enjoyed my new job, Bianca. Thank you for that. It was very clever of you to realise I’d be able to do it. I certainly wasn’t doing the one I had before with any great skill.’

‘That’s true,’ called out Mark Rawlins. It could have sounded harsh but such was the affection and humour in the room that everyone laughed.

Bertie grinned at him and went on, ‘I’ve enjoyed working with all of you, you’ve all been very kind to me, and thank you for that too.’

It wasn’t quite what they’d worked out that morning, Lara thought, it was a bit awkward and stumbly, but it was very touching and very sweet. Like him. Stop it, Lara! You’ll start crying again.

‘A few people have been extra kind. I won’t name you, you know who you are, but I want everyone, everyone in this room, to know that I shall miss you . . . very much. Thank you and – yes, thank you. All of you.’

That was clever, Bianca thought; she had been wondering how he could say anything much without either excluding or offending his mother. He was, of course, much cleverer than he let on. She felt very sad suddenly; she was going to miss him even more than she had suspected. If indeed she was here to miss him at all.

She suddenly felt a great wrench of misery; not just about Bertie but her whole situation; she decided she couldn’t stay here with all these chattering cheerful people any longer. But she didn’t want to sneak off . . .

She tapped her glass again. The room was silent.

‘I have to go now,’ she said, ‘forgive me, please, all of you, but especially you, Bertie. I hope that’s all right.’ She kissed him again. ‘Bye Bertie. Have fun.’

And she was gone.

They each of them, Lara and Athina, realised it simultaneously: that the other was crying. They were both fighting it, but there was no mistaking the fact. Their eyes, their tear-filled eyes, met, acknowledged the other’s sadness, and each managed a watery apology of a smile. And then Athina left the room, very quickly and suddenly, and Lara very soon after her.

And Bertie observed it too.

He felt very odd suddenly. He excused himself from a conversation with Jemima and Lucy and went into the corridor; no sign of either of them. His mother’s office was the nearer; he walked towards it to find the door was firmly shut.

He knocked; no reply. He tried the door. It opened.

He looked round the large office, where he had spent so many miserable hours, and she was sitting, almost concealed, in the large swivel chair that had been his father’s, her back to the room, looking out over the rooftops.

‘Mother?’ he said tentatively.

‘Yes? What is it?’

‘I just came to see if you were all right.’

‘Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘You looked a little – upset, I thought.’

‘Upset? Of course I wasn’t upset. The atmosphere in there was very stifling. I needed some fresh air.’

‘Yes, I see. Good. So – you didn’t enjoy the party?’

‘Oh – it was all right. That was a very generous speech Mrs Bailey made.’

‘I thought so too. Very kind.’

‘Indeed. And – well, I have to admit, Bertie, she does seem to have unearthed talents in you that I – perhaps I had missed. And it was very – very touching to see that many of those people were fond of you.’

She looked up at him; the green eyes were very bright, suspiciously bright. A tear rolled down her face. She brushed it impatiently away.

‘It was indeed,’ he said, ignoring the tears, pretending he hadn’t noticed them. ‘I was surprised too.’

‘Of course these affairs are always over-emotional,’ she said. ‘People sentimentalise, imagine their feelings are stronger than they really are.’

‘Of course.’

‘But – I would like to add my regrets to theirs,’ she said. ‘I too am sorry you are going, Bertie.’

It was, he knew, the nearest he would ever get to an apology about anything from her, an admission that she had been wrong about him, her judgments harsh, her view distorted.

But, ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s – kind of you to say.’

‘I would like to add my own wish that you would return to visit us – the company that is,’ she said, and then, after a long pause, ‘And – and perhaps me personally.’

‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘Did you really think I might not?’

‘Good. Now Bertie, there is something else. Something important. Mrs Clements.’

‘Mrs Clements?’ He was so astonished he felt physically shaky. ‘What about her?’

‘I think I have been mistaken about her. Oh, I still think her style of dress is rather unfortunate, but I think she has a good heart.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mother,’ said Bertie, wondering if she would pick up the edge to his voice.

She didn’t. ‘I think she is genuinely fond of you, Bertie. Not merely after your money and your position, as I had presumed.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ This was seriously astonishing. Not only what she was saying – Lara? Fond of him? – but that his mother should admit to making two mistakes, in the same five minutes.

‘And I have been aware for some time that you find her . . . attractive. And that you enjoy one another’s company. Although less of late.’

‘That’s very perceptive of you,’ said Bertie.

‘Well, don’t sound so surprised. I am an extremely perceptive woman.’

‘Yes. Yes of course you are.’ It was clearly the only thing to say.

‘Anyway, she was very upset at the party. After the speeches. I think you should go and find her. She’s in her office. Or she was. I saw her going into it, shutting the door. You’d better hurry though, she may well decide to go home.’

‘But – but she—’

‘Oh Bertie!’ Athina got out of the chair, turned him round to face the door, and gave him a gentle push. ‘We don’t get many chances in life to put things right, or at least to try. Go on. Go and find her.’

Lara, sitting at her desk, her head buried in her arms, was not merely weeping that Bertie was going and she would not see him again. It was because she felt more than ever aware of what she had lost. A man such as she had not known before, gentle, patient and loyal, with a set of immaculate values. He was a rare creature, was Bertram Farrell; how the family genes had thrown him up, was hard to see. Of course, she hadn’t known Cornelius, but he had clearly not been too much like Bertie; and as for his mother . . .

Well, it was over now. Whatever there might have been, whatever she might have had, or been within a breath of having. Bertie was leaving, was going to live hundreds of miles away, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. And perhaps there never had been. The best thing she could do was try to forget him, get on with her life, pursue her relationship with Chris, a far more suitable partner for her. And her career of course. That at least was good; that at least she had.

There was a knock at the door and before she had time to so much as wipe the snot off her face, it opened and Bertie stood there.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Chapter 53

‘Miss Hamilton, good morning. So sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Which he had, for almost an hour. Florence had finished reading all the five-year-old copies of
Country Life
that the reception area of Smythe Tarrant Solicitors offered by way of amusement and was turning her attention to the
Law Society Gazette
.

‘I won’t say it doesn’t matter,’ she said, setting down the magazine on the table. ‘As I explained to you, when you asked me not to be late, I am very busy today also.’

Mr Smythe was clearly not used to criticism; he cleared his throat, said he was sorry again and asked her if she would like a coffee.

She looked at him; he was not as old as she had expected, probably a mere seventy, she thought. He was quite tall and extremely thin, with wispy grey hair, and rather piercing blue eyes. She tried to imagine him forty years younger, when Cornelius had first gone to see him, and realised he could have been rather handsome. And very young, of course; no doubt Cornelius had chosen him partly on that basis, given that he quite possibly needed to be around for a long time.

He was also rather smartly dressed, in a well-cut suit and extremely nice shoes; the only sartorial mistake – in Florence’s opinion – being a blue shirt with a white collar, required dressing for young men about town in the seventies. It was a look that had not stood the test of time especially as this particular white collar sat just below a very prominent Adam’s Apple.

‘I would like a coffee very much please,’ she said. She had expected that at least during her long wait; it had not come. ‘With milk,’ she added.

‘I will organise that. Do please come into my office.’

The office was predictably chaotic; papers piled on every surface, box files stacked up against the wall, filing cabinets, many of them half-open, on every available piece of floor space. Mr Smythe’s desk was wooden, with a leather inlay just visible beneath further piles of paper. There was also, rather endearingly she thought, a leather blotter. Not many of those left in working offices. There were no pictures, no photographs, the only decoration being several framed certificates, informing the world that Mr Smythe was a Member of the Law Society, and that Smythe Tarrant were an incorporated firm of solicitors.

Of Mr Tarrant there had been no sign, merely a distinctly unfriendly receptionist who clearly saw no need to supply waiting clients with coffee or, indeed, the occasional apology that they had been kept waiting so long.

‘Do sit down, Miss Hamilton. Coffee has been ordered. Now, since we are both such busy people and cannot afford to waste time, let us get straight down to business.’

And what else might they do, Florence wondered, play a quick game of bridge, or even discuss the weather?

‘I had expected to see you sooner,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘It is some years since Sir Cornelius died.’

‘Indeed. But I have had no need of any help until now.’

‘I see. Well now, the first thing I have to do is explain to you exactly what you have been left. Which is a little more complex than you might perhaps have understood. Or indeed even than Sir Cornelius might have understood, or his father before him. Sir Cornelius was a highly intelligent man but not greatly concerned with detail. Not that it was required that he should have been, in this matter at least. That is my job.’

‘Indeed,’ said Florence, who was well aware of Cornelius’s lack of concern with detail.

‘So I must explain the exact nature of the deed of gift,’ said Mr Smythe.

‘Well, as I understand it, the freehold of The Shop,’ said Florence.

‘Ah. As I thought, things are
not
clear.’

At this point the sullen-looking receptionist appeared and glared at Florence.

‘Sugar?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes please.’

She disappeared again and Mr Smythe smiled apologetically.

‘I think we might wait until the coffee has arrived. Otherwise we shall be interrupted again.’

Florence thought of Christine and Jemima and how they managed to serve coffee charmingly and graciously without appearing to interrupt the most delicate procedures in any way.

‘I think that would take a little too long,’ she said. ‘Do please go on, Mr Smythe.’

‘Very well. Now, the whole point about the Berkeley Arcade is that it was set up as a tontine. Do you know what a tontine is?’

Florence shook her head.

‘Ah, I thought as much. A tontine is, in essence, something subscribed to by a group, the shares owned by the original founders. It can be a public building, a house, a racing stables, even. It is named after Lorenzo de Tonti, a Neapolitan banker.

‘Now the Berkeley Arcade tontine was set up by a hundred young men in 1820. They each put in thirty guineas to buy the land. One can visualise them, can one not, sitting in a coffee house, or perhaps a club, agreeing that it might be rather fun and make them a bit of money?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘The whole point about a tontine is that, as each subscriber dies, his shares pass back to the original founders. I could list for you, if you so wish, the names of all the members of the Arcade tontine.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you,’ said Florence, ‘not at this stage at least. But what does that exactly mean? I mean, what happens to the shares?’

‘Well, the last remaining member of the tontine inherits all the shares.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’

She didn’t, quite, but she needed him to go on; things might become clearer.

‘Very well. Also – and this is important – this tontine was set up and administered by a charter company, which means that any profits must be invested back into the company.’

Florence was feeling increasingly bewildered.

‘Well now – ah, our coffee. Thank you so much, Mrs Graves.’

Florence had been expecting, given the difficulty with which it had been obtained, that the coffee would be served in fine bone china, on a tray complete with sugar basin and milk jug. She was wrong. Mrs Graves – and how did such an unattractive person manage to become Mrs anything, she wondered – slammed down on the low table beside her a polystyrene cup of what she presumed to be coffee; a cup of water complete with teabag was offered to Mr Smythe with the same graciousness.

‘Thank you,’ said Florence, ‘most kind.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Graves,’ said Mr Smythe again. ‘Most welcome.’

Mrs Graves left, slamming the door behind her.

‘Now, if we might continue . . .’ said Mr Smythe.

‘OK,’ said Hugh, ‘we need to get this over, Bianca. I would stress that, at this stage, the original investment still stands. We are not pulling out of the deal; rather holding to it, as it was originally set up. I do hope that’s clear.’

‘It is,’ said Bianca, ‘but, you see . . .’

She looked at them; they looked back, their faces more than usually blank. Was it something venture capitalists developed, she wondered, that expression and the ability to switch it on at will, or was it there in the first place, a requirement of the job?

‘. . . you see, it just isn’t going to work without the global launch idea, the franchises, the—’

‘Really?’ Mike’s expression was now one of intense surprise. ‘But until a very few weeks ago, you assured us it would. Has something changed?’

‘In a way, yes. The franchises have been taken, and replicas of our shop are being created all over the world. With your help, of course. I don’t discount that for a moment. The entire advertising budget, perfume apart, has been appropriated to that. It’s far too late to develop another one. The heritage idea, the link with the Jubilee, the whole platform we’ve now built the relaunch on, needs the global launch.’

‘But why? We genuinely don’t understand. Admittedly your latest idea was far more ambitious, and it must be said, exciting, but the original had much to commend it. At far lower cost . . .’

‘No,’ said Bianca staunchly, ‘the advertising budget hasn’t changed. Merely the way we are spending it. Far, far more efficiently, as I see it. We’ve said all along that we couldn’t possibly compete with the Lauders and the L’Oréals.’

‘I don’t recall your exactly saying that,’ said Hugh. ‘You assured us the campaign would be so clever, with such a strong premise, that it would stand up very well.’

‘I know, but . . .’

‘But . . . ?’

‘That was before I had this idea. This brilliant idea which hangs on our having the shops. We can’t do it without it. In fact, that could be said for the original idea,’ she added, ‘given the heritage angle. It’s given it all so much credence.’

‘Well, it’s going to have to manage without it,’ said Mike. ‘We cannot conjure another two million out of the air, Bianca. I’m sorry.’

She was silent.

‘And,’ Hugh said, ‘we have to move out of that shop, pronto. Every day there is costing us mega bucks. Which will have to be found out of the budget,’ he added.

‘Oh what?’

‘Well, of course. I do begin to wonder what’s happened to your commercial sense, Bianca. Perhaps you might take a little time to read through the contract again.’

She said nothing.

‘So – what suggestions do you have?’

‘I – I don’t know. None, really. Everything is linked to everything else. The new range, the packaging, the concept, the PR, the advertising – it’s all tied up in The Shop. And the other shops. I can’t see how we can do it without.’

‘Well, you’ll have to try. Unless you want to pull out altogether, of course, and we can call in the receivers, call it a day. That way we at least won’t lose any more—’

‘You can’t do that!’ Panic flooded her. ‘You can’t.’

‘From what you say, we might as well. Your other way isn’t going to work, or so you seem to have suddenly discovered.’

‘That’s not fair. The other way still needs The Shop.’

‘Sadly, that cannot be. The Shop has to go. Look, why don’t you go and have a think. Come back in an hour. Ask Mark Rawlins, if you like. He’s the only person who knows about this and he’s very discreet and very sound.’

‘I – might,’ she said, but she knew she wouldn’t. What did Mark know about interactive advertising campaigns and creative concepts and PR build-up and consumer awareness? She suddenly felt very tired and unbearably sad. She needed to get out of here before she actually started crying. That really would spell the end for her, as well as the House of Farrell.

‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now then,’ said Mr Smythe, ‘what Sir Cornelius himself failed to recognise, and his father before him – I don’t suppose you ever met his father?’ He had a way of interrupting himself, and going off into what seemed to Florence in her agony of impatience, time-wasting tangents. She shook her head.

‘Ah. Well, he was very unlike Cornelius, it must be said; he seems to have been a rather unworldly character, an academic, whose needs were simple and his interests scholastic. He lived alone, after his wife, Cornelius’s mother, ran off, and was writing a book about medieval map-making which, between the two of us, I consider would have been unpublishable.’

‘I certainly won’t tell anyone,’ said Florence carefully, ‘but what was it that he – Cornelius’s father – didn’t realise?’

‘I thought I had explained that,’ said Mr Smythe.

‘Not – not quite.’

‘Dear me. Well, that his father was the last surviving member of the tontine.’

Florence was experiencing a rather odd sensation; her skin felt very cold, almost clammy and she was finding breathing a little difficult.

Surely, surely, this didn’t mean – it couldn’t mean – no, of course it couldn’t. It
couldn’t
. She took another sip of her disgusting coffee and said, mostly by way of avoiding the huge, the terrifying, the incredible conclusion, ‘But how could he not have done?’

‘Oh, very easily. If he wasn’t giving it proper attention.’ He looked at Florence rather irritably; he clearly felt she could also do better in this department. ‘His father, Cornelius’s grandfather, died rather suddenly and his will simply stated that he left all his worldly possessions to his only son. There was no time for deathbed conversations, or anything like that. And in turn, Cornelius’s father left all his worldly possessions to Cornelius, the will identically worded. Neither of them took any interest in the Berkeley Arcade, especially as it didn’t yield any income as such, the profits having to be ploughed back into the arcade – indeed, just recently the charter company have increased the rents of all the shops there to a properly commercial level to take care of some necessary refurbishment on the fabric of the entire arcade. That is one of the things I felt you should be aware of, but as it contradicted Sir Cornelius’s instruction . . .’

‘But – I still don’t quite understand what all this means.’

Mr Smythe sighed once again.

‘Dear me. What it means is that Cornelius did not merely inherit the freehold of Number 62. He inherited the freehold of the entire arcade. And that is what he has gifted to you.’

‘Oh,’ said Florence. ‘Oh, I see. I – I wonder if I could have a glass of water . . .’

Bianca took far less than an hour to think about what should be done. As far as she could see, there was nothing really to think about. The House of Farrell was doomed and might as well be closed with as much dignity as possible, rather than scrabbling about struggling to keep its head above the water for another six months or so. Unless she could produce two million pounds, The Shop would have to go and if The Shop was gone, so was her campaign. Even the more modest version, as she had pointed out to Mike and Hugh. She did wonder wildly if they could build it on the global line-up of shops without the one in the arcade but as it was the cornerstone of everything they were doing – The Shop opening on almost the very day the Queen was crowned, the society ladies and famous models of their day all shopping there and Susie had some wonderful interviews with a few of them – it would all ring horribly false. She felt very angry suddenly; it was all so unfair. And there had been nothing from Florence; obviously her legacy wasn’t going to help any. She wondered what on earth Cornelius could have been thinking of, bequeathing his mistress, in this flamboyantly romantic gesture, something that was clearly going to cost her, rather than provide her with, a great deal of money. The more she knew of him, the more she found Cornelius irritating.